Madness is the Emergency Exit
by Robin Red R
Summary: But that doesn't change the fact that he's been /hearing voices no one else can hear/ and fuck, he doesn't quite know what to do with that sudden revelation. 'Not voices', corrects the voice pleasantly. 'Just one. Though, if you'd prefer more then I'm sure that could be arranged.' Dick drops his mug in shock. [Warnings inside. Dark!fic.]


_**Warnings: **__schizophrenia, psychological self-abuse, birdflash subtext, and suicide… sort of…?_

_**Author's Note: **__Happy Halloween… ;)_

_**Title taken from this fantastic quote:**__ "So when you find yourself locked onto an unpleasant train of thought, heading for the places in your past where the screaming is unbearable, remember there's always madness. Madness is the emergency exit… you can just step outside, and close the door on all those dreadful things that happened. You can lock them away… forever." – _The Joker, Batman: The Killing Joke.

* * *

**.:: Madness is the Emergency Exit ::.**

**x-x-x-x**

The first time it happens, he hardly notices. He's in the middle of a fight, outnumbered five to one and still keeping the upper-hand, wielding his birdarangs like they're an extension of his own body. The last conscious thug growls and charges forward with an animalistic bellow, but Robin flips out of the way, his foot easily connecting with the man's skull and knocking him instantly unconscious. That's when he hears it:

'_Left. Behind you.' _Robin spins around without a second's hesitation, barely parrying the blow aimed for the back of his neck. It's a sixth henchman, who'd probably been hiding in the shadows till now, biding his time for the right moment to make his appearance. The masked vigilante briefly berates himself for letting his guard down so quickly. There's the shrill clang of metal on metal, and then Robin twists the blade out of the man's hold with a practiced movement. He twirls his escrima stick once for added flair, and then slams it down on the thug's head; he crumples to the ground like a falling tower of jenga.

After that, it is silent, the dark oppressive silence so common for Gotham's streets at this time of night. Only the soft scuttling of rodents in the dark and Robin's shallow breaths can be heard. He rolls his shoulders and slides his weapons back into his belt, letting the adrenaline coursing through his veins return to a normal level, till he can't feel his heart beating in his throat anymore. He knows that was too close. Far too close. If he hadn't turned around at that instant – if he hadn't been _warned _– he's not sure he would have stopped that blade in time.

He takes a few moments to collect himself, tying up the thugs while he's at it, then calls the local police station and leaves them the address. By the time they arrive, sirens blaring through the darkness, Robin is long gone. (The moon is his only witness to the scene.) He doesn't think about what he heard again till much later.

**x-x-x-x**

The second time, Richard Grayson is sitting in Gotham Academy's gymnasium trying to take his mid-term exams. 'Trying' being the operative word. Harley helped the Joker escape from Arkham Asylum last week and Dick consequently hasn't slept in three days ; his mind feels numb after 36 hours straight of worry and tension, and his eyes are pricking with the strain of staring at a blue computer screen the whole night long, following up on unsuccessful leads. He knows he looks like shit – both Artemis and Wally told him so earlier this morning – what with the blue bags under his eyes, far too dark against the unnatural pallor of his face.

He stares at his calculus exam, trying to make his eyes focus but all he can pick out are a few blurred marks, and the _tick tick tick _of the clock counting down the seconds, _tick tick tick, _and his weary body can't stop the panic from welling up within him, can't remember the techniques Batman has drilled into him for seven years about staying calm and keeping your head. How can he keep his head when he can't even remember where it is?

'_Breathe in. Breathe out.' _Dick does as he's told, too tired to wonder whose voice it is, or where it's coming from.

'_In.' _Later, he'll describe is as indescribable. Neither male nor female.

'_Out.' _Neither old nor young.

'_In.' _Neither foreign nor familiar.

'…_Out.' _For now, it just is.

**4.** Find the vertex of the parabola with equation y = x2 – 8x + 14.

'_You know how to do this.'_

"Yes, I do," Dick agrees quietly to the silent room. The supervisor's head snaps up and he looks accusingly in Dick's general direction, not sure who to glare at for the vocal transgression, so the culprit quickly ducks his head. Suddenly, the equation before him is legible again; staring, he can see the patterns, knows each step he needs to follow now to come to the final answer, the way it's always been since he discovered his joy and prodigious talent for mathematics way back in fifth grade. His pen scratches over the paper, his mind already moving on to the next problem. He's lost time, but he can still do it, he thinks.

'_You can still do it,' _encourages the voice, and Dick believes it.

When he's momentarily stumped on a question, knowing he has ten minutes left and still a whole page to finish, when the earlier moment of bright clarity has faded again and Dick is threatened by a dark wave of oblivion at the edges of his vision… the voice whispers ''_Chain rule', remember?' _in a conspiratorial tone. Dick grins manically at his paper as he scribbles down the workings of his answer, and manages to write his last digit – put the curly tail on the '2' – just as the bell rings.

He promptly faints after that, the exhaustion catching up to him, and wakes up in the nurse's office with a glass of sugar-water being pushed between his lips and embarrassment heating his cheeks.

He gets an almost perfect score on his exam despite it all. The voice smugly tells him '_I told you so.'_

**x-x-x-x**

And really, it's only after a whole week has gone by since his exam date, and Dick's lounging in the Manor with a cup of hot chocolate and half-listening to Christmas music, that it occurs to him that he's been hearing voices in his head on a frighteningly regular basis.

Dick is seventeen and grew up in Gotham; he knows better than anyone that hearing voices is never a good sign. Frankly, it worries him that it took this long for him to actually notice. Though, he supposes, since he'd only heard them while he was under high-stress situations perhaps they'd just faded into the background under the other more pressing issues.

But that doesn't change the fact that he's been _hearing voices no one else can hear _and fuck, he doesn't quite know what to do with that sudden revelation.

'_Not voi__**ces**__',_ corrects the voice pleasantly. _'Just one. Though, if you'd prefer more then I'm sure that could be arranged.'_

Dick drops his mug in shock.

'_My my, you're a little bit clumsy for a supposed acrobat, aren't you? Alfred's going to have conniptions about that stain.'_

Dick takes a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. Mechanically, he stands and goes to the kitchen, gathering a handful of paper towels with which to clean up his spill. He holds on to the childish thought that maybe if he doesn't listen to – doesn't _acknowledge _– the voice, then it'll go away.

'_I'm not going to go away.' _And Dick can't tell if the tone is supposed to be ominous or reassuring. He's not sure which one would disturb him more.

He sinks down into the sofa again, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. It's nothing to worry about. He's just been extraordinarily stressed lately, and once he gets a chance to rest and recuperate, he'll be fine. Better not tell Bruce or he'll worry… or worse, force Dick to drop the hero-act indefinitely.

'_That's not a very good plan,' _says the voice. _'Maybe you should take a break, you know, you can't go on like this forever.'_

Dick's resolve caves then, and he balls up his fists. "For god's sake, I don't need to hear you judging my every thought! You don't even exist, so I have no reason to listen to you."

'_But that's what I'm supposed to do, Dick. If I don't, then who will there be to judge your decisions, to filter out the thoughts you shouldn't be having, to let you develop your own sense of morality?'_

"Morality?" Dick scoffs. "I'm talking to myself; I'm pretty sure no one would find that acceptable other than the happy residents of Arkham."

'_And by the by I __**do**__ exist,' _it continues without pause, and its tone has changed from placid and amiable to something with a distinct edge. _'You've just never anthropomorphized my voice before.'_

"You don't exist. You're just in my head, okay? You don't exist."

'_That's right. I __**am**_ _just in your head. But that doesn't make me any less real. I'm not going to leave now as long as you still have your mind to give me voice.'_

Dick's heart beats hard in his throat. "Well, I'm not sure how long I'll still have it, at this rate." He feels unhinged, and his fingers are trembling slightly when he stands. He flees the living room, and slips into his Robin suit despite the fact that the sun has only just set. Maybe he can clear his head by beating up some of Gotham's finest.

**x-x-x-x**

Like it predicted, the voice doesn't leave, not even as the days turn into weeks, turn into months. But Dick's fear and hostility gradually fade. It turns out the voice can be quite a witty companion, especially during the long winter evenings when his friends are out on League business, or when there's a lull in Gotham's crime rate. It's like trying to outwit yourself, and Dick happily rises to the challenge. After all, he can communicate with this entity in a way he cannot with anyone else. For, ultimately, who knows you better than your own mind?

It starts off with rather banal comments, which actually turn out to be helpful most of the time.

As he's walking down the street in his civvies to his favorite twenty-four/seven café for a mid-patrol pick-me-up: _'There's a woman in a red dress behind you.'_

'Yeah, so what?' he thinks, glancing surreptitiously behind him and seeing that sure enough, the voice is correct.

'_Nothing. Except she's got a knife in her sleeve – you can tell from the way she's holding her arm – and I'm pretty sure that's a LexCorp emblem on her purse. Also, she's been tailing you for the last three blocks.'_

…Okay then.

Dick turns into an alley, and pretends not to notice when she follows him in.

A few minutes later, he strolls out again, alone, dusting his hands off on his jeans as he goes.

**x-x-x-x**

But then begin the derogatory comments.

'_Pathetic. Good for nothing.' _Each critique a blow to his psyche.

'_You can't ever meet anybody's expectations, so don't even try._' Dick generally has a pretty tough skin when it comes to these things. _'Charity case. Circus freak. Gypsy boy.' _But that's because he's good at hiding his true emotions from everyone else, at putting on a fake face and laughing everything off good naturedly, making sure not to let too many people too close. _'Bruce will never love you. Your parents would be so disappointed if they knew the pathetic life you've chosen.' _He's good at fooling even himself. _'Disgusting. Faggot._'

He has, however, no defense against his own mind.

'_**It's your fault they fell. You don't even deserve to live.'**_

**x-x-x-x**

Dick can feel himself changing, but he can't put his finger on what it is exactly. He's not sure he wants to. The voice tells him it's for the better.

He feels restless, often times pacing around his room like a confined tiger. Except, he's not really a tiger, is he? More like the whimpering mouse in the tiger's claws. Or, rather, a bird. A bird, with broken wings, when all he wishes is to be able to fly, to fly, and be free.

He can never fly again, he realizes distantly.

**x-x-x-x**

But it's not all that bad, not really, and Dick consoles himself with that thought whenever he feels like tearing open his own head to let the audible intrusions out. It takes him a while to realize it, but it soon becomes clear that the voice is merely a representation of his own subconscious. A direct, intelligent, communicative link with his own brain.

And that's pretty fucking amazing when you think about it.

No longer does he need to rack his brains and pull all-nighters trying to memorize dates, formulas, and pages and pages of lessons. Everything he hears, even when he's not actively paying attention, and everything he sees, even if it's out of the corner of his eyes, is stored somewhere in the depths of his mind. All he needs to do then is ask, and the voice relays him the information.

Of course, everything in his mind is still subject to his own bias, so he can't rely completely on everything he's told. But his resistance wears down little by little, and it becomes easier just to do as the voice says, and believe what it tells him. (It works, though, for he breezes through school without a hitch, and will graduate as one of the top three students of Gotham Academy four months later.)

It helps him in his other life too. He can easily remember half a dozen criminal files at once, sorting through them almost simultaneously, able to pick out the relevant tidbits and compare them. And all this while he's lying sprawled on his bed with his eyes closed.

Like the very first time, he hears the voice warning him about incoming attacks while he's in costume, informing him of the little details he can't give his full attention to otherwise, especially when he's out with the Team. It's possible that the fraction of a second extra-warning saves Dick's or a teammate's life on more than one occasion.

Robin's performance increases so rapidly that Batman becomes suspicious, plying him with questions and monitoring him like he's nine-years-old again and new to the game. It drives Dick steadily crazier, no pun intended, each time he finds another bat-shaped bug on his clothes. (Once upon a time it might have been funny when he finds one clipped to his underwear; now, the furious shouting match that resounds through the Manor following this discovery sends even Alfred into hiding.)

**x-x-x-x**

"Oh, hey M'gann!" he exclaims as he bumps into his Martian teammate once as she's entering the mountain through the zeta beam.

She smiles at him, but there's a tightness around her eyes when she replies "Hello, Robin," though that in and of itself isn't that unusual. M'gann has changed over the last few years, finely so, but she's no longer the bright, bubbly girl that she used to be, burning cookies in the over and pretending to be a character on a TV show. She's aged; they all have.

But something's different this time.

Dick's new abilities, (and yes, the irony of that term is not lost on him, considering he's one of the only superheroes without any meta-powers), give him a new insight into his social relationships as well, dwindling as they are.

Robin has always prided himself on being a skilled body-language reader; he was trained by Batman after all. But even he is not perfect. However, his subconscious does pick up on things he ordinarily wouldn't, the subtler emotions, the thoughts of people as adroit at putting on a mask as he is. Every conversation he has, whether with friend of foe alike, the voice keeps up a running commentary in his head. No imperceptible twitch or wandering gaze is lost on him.

"How was your trip?" he asks, tilting his head curiously. She's been gone for the last few weeks back to Mars with her uncle.

"Great. Caught up with my siblings… Everything's pretty much the same. It was good to be back." _'Lies. All lies.' _The fact that she makes too much of an effort to meet his calculating gaze gives her away.

Robin narrows his eyes. "It's been a few years since you last went, I'm sure some things have changed." M'gann clenches her jaw and her eyes flicker away. _'Knew it.'_

"Yes. Everyone is two years older." Her tone is testy but her expression is not hostile, so Dick plows on even though it's clear she's not planning on sharing. Or, at least that's what the voice tells him to do.

"A lot can happen in two years. I mean, look at us." He grins conspiratorially, but she does not return it. "Wanna talk about it?"

M'gann sighs, neatly side-stepping him. "I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."

He blocks her path. "Talking can help."

"I don't want to talk about it." Dick notices the slight waver of her lip, the way her voice almost falters on the last word. _'Make her trust you.'_

Dick crosses his arms. "That's what you always say. But I'm your friend. You can tell me," he presses. Vaguely, he realizes he's pushing some kind of social boundary, but it doesn't stop him, and he doesn't feel bad even when he sees the nervous sheen beading her forehead. Maybe that's just because it's an unusually hot May this year.

M'gann stops, and sends him a disbelieving look. "Who do you think you are, Dick?" she hisses, the name slipping out only proof of how unstable she is at the moment. "I don't want to talk to you! Okay, so things aren't fine at home, I admit it. But frankly, that's none of your business."

He doesn't bother scolding her for the slip-up; most of his team members know his name already. No one's around anyway. So he holds his palms out instead, a gesture of peace. "Hey, I was only trying to help." _'Make her trust you, and then find her weak link. She'll tell you everything if you play it right. That's how it always works.'_

M'gann blinks, and for a moment she looks as if the anger will fade from her gaze. Then she snaps her eyes back up to look at him, and he's startled by the hardness in their usually warm, amber depths. "I don't need help. Not from you. You, of all people, cannot pretend to be my shrink."

That throws him off. The voice recoils in fear inside his mind. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You think I don't know, do you? You think I can't hear you? Robin, if there's anyone who needs someone to talk to, then it's _you." _He can hear the worry color her voice, even through the anger. But he closes himself off immediately.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

She hesitates, clenching and unclenching her fists. '_She's debating whether or not to tell you something,' _supplies the voice. 'Yes, I can see that myself,' he retorts snappily within his mind. '_You can't listen to anything she says. She doesn't understand. She could be dangerous. And you're being careless.'_

"Well." M'gann purses her lips. "I don't appreciate you sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong. I'll see you later." She pauses another moment, the turns and stalks back in the direction of her room. "And you'd do well to heed my advice. I'm sure you have Black Canary's number, for instance."

The rest of the mountain is silent.

Dick is very, very careful about what he lets show from then on. He closes himself off from M'gann, and then from Artemis and Kaldur and Conner too once they start throwing him strange looks, wondering where the bright, snarky Boy Wonder disappeared to. They think he can't hear them whispering behind his back? He knows they're always talking about him. Like when he walks into a room and all conversation stops. The awkward silences. The worried glances. The stressed-out sighs. The dysfunctionality as a team because they're not listening to each other.

So he cuts himself off. He doesn't need them anyway, does he?

**x-x-x-x**

He asks the voice if he should talk to Dinah. _'There's nothing wrong with you,' _is what he gets in reply. _'Nothing wrong with you. Trust me.'_

Dick feels as if there is some great importance to that command. Trust… that's Dick's most precious possession. Trust means giving away a piece of yourself, a piece for someone else to take care of. It means opening yourself up to vulnerability, too. Dick knows you can't just trust anyone… That was Batman's lesson number one.

'_Trust me.'_

And Dick does.

**x-x-x-x**

He's practicing his acrobatics in the gym, a.k.a. showing off for Wally. As he pushes off for a last flip, his foot slips on the bar; not enough to make him fall, but enough to make his landing look quite a bit less than perfect.

'_What was that, Grayson?' _The voice sneers in his mind as he stumbles to a stop, ankle twisting under him. _'For the only living man supposedly able to do a quadruple somersault, you sure don't look it today.'_

He stands up straight, brushing his sweaty fringe out of his face, and winces when he puts weight on his foot.

"Rob!" Wally's by his side instantly, touching his elbow lightly. "You okay? Are you hurt?"

Dick glances up at his best friend, sees the concern in his green eyes, and something in him snaps. He snarls, pushing the speedster's arm away viciously. "I'm _fine_. Leave me alone! Why can't you just leave me alone, all of you?" He stomps to the bench and grabs a towel, feeling inexplicably angry, though it all makes perfect sense to him. The fluffy white fabric in his hands mocks him. Stupid bar. Stupid foot. Stupid Wally. Dick wants to punch something. Possibly Wally. Possibly himself.

He settles for the wall.

…

Wally takes his hand in both his own, smoothing his thumb over Dick's torn and rapidly-bruising knuckles. Dick can't look at him; the shame twists in his gut and burns his face, though he can't feel the pain in his hand yet.

"Dick…" Wally begins, quietly, like Dick's a wild animal that he's trying not to frighten away.

"No. It's okay. I'm sorry, Walls, but really, it's fine. I'm just… you know." He tries for a half-hearted smile but he's pretty sure it comes out as a pained grimace. "Been trying to perfect that flip for months, and it's… frustrating. That's all."

Wally sighs. "Dick, you just made a dent in a concrete wall," he states. "A dent. You going to tell me what's wrong now?"

"Nothing's wrong."

Wally grabs Dick's chin and turns his face, forcing Dick to look at him. "Dude, you've been acting strange for months now, always holing yourself up in your room and ignoring my texts. Frankly, you look like you haven't slept in days, and that's being generous. That, and the fact that you nearly beat that guy to death on our mission yesterday and M'gann had to forcibly remove you from the scene. So don't you _dare _tell me that 'nothing's wrong'."

Dick stares at him, and stares some more, and can't come up with a reply. He feels a tremor in his muscles, and there's a weight in his stomach that feels like fear, though he knows he's not afraid. He makes a strangled kind of sound, another excuse that dies and fades before it leaves his lips, and ends up stepping forward into Wally's surprised arms. He presses his forehead against his best friend's shoulder, and Wally's arms hesitantly go around his torso to pull him close.

They're silent for a long moment, while Dick tries to bring order to his thoughts and Wally awkwardly pets his back. Dick silently thanks him for giving him this moment of comfort, without prying.

"…Okay?" Wally finally asks, hesitantly, though the answer seems pretty obvious. Dick shrugs and pulls away, putting a bit more respectful distance between them. They sit on the bench and Wally puts his hand on Dick's knee.

"Is it Batman?" Dick shakes his head in reply. "Is there anyone I need to go beat up?" Dick smiles faintly and gives another shake. Wally squeezes his knee, looking lost. "Then is it me?"

Dick finally looks up, laying his hand over Wally's. "No. No, of course not Wally. It's me, it's always just me being stupid and… I'll get over it. I just need some time."

Wally looks unconvinced as he searches Dick's uncovered eyes. Dick's afraid he'll see right through him, right into the darkest recesses of his soul and see the things that even Dick himself doesn't acknowledge are there. He shivers slightly, feeling a cold draft brush by his feet.

Eventually, Wally sighs, not having found what he was looking for. "You're not gonna tell me, are you?"

And Dick wants to. He really does. He's sure Wally would understand, that he would believe him. Maybe he'd even help him because God knows Dick can't do it himself. Just as he's steeling himself to let it out, another thought occurs to him: how can he possibly trust that Wally's concern is genuine? Dick knows that his love for Bruce and Wally are his two weakest links. It shouldn't be that hard for his enemies to figure that out either. Maybe Wally's just part of a whole conspiracy to make Dick spill his beans, and then where will he be? If the media find out he's Robin? If Gotham's villains find out he's Richard Grayson? (If either find out he's gone mad?)

The more he considers this, the more plausible it seems. He doesn't think about the fact that this is his best friend he's talking about, the one he trusts with his life, nor that if the speedster were truly part of any conspiracy, he already knows more about both Robin and Dick combined than practically any other person on the planet.

Dick blinks and fakes an apologetic expression. "Sorry…"

Wally nods, lets go of him, and turns away. Not fast enough for Dick to miss the hurt expression that crosses his features. He almost feels remorseful.

**x-x-x-x**

Dick discovers Freud's _The Ego and the Id _in the school library one day. It fascinates him so much that he replaces his fantasy and sci-fi novels – the ones he used to stay up all night reading under the covers – with papers on other psychological studies and theories instead.

Everything makes a lot more sense now. Dick no longer fears the voice in his mind.

**x-x-x-x**

It's a sweltering hot August day, and Dick's up in his room silently fuming while the house echoes after yet another one of his and Bruce's rows, when he decides he's had enough. When the voice tells him maybe he should leave, because _'Bruce won't ever understand you like I will' _and _'you could do so much better'_, Dick doesn't think twice about 's been eighteen for three months now; it's high time he moved out.

Richard Grayson joins the Blüdhaven police force, ditching his father's Ivy League wishes. Robin disappears from Gotham's street, not to be seen again until many years later, (and only then with a new face behind the mask.) A new hero crops up in her sister city, sleek and dark and beautiful, with a cruel laugh and a perpetual curl to his lips that sends thugs cowering in fear. A band of blue across his chest that matches his unseen eyes. It turns darker as time goes on, stained by Blüdhaven's smog and grime, and Dick thinks maybe it matches the darkness in his eyes as well.

**x-x-x-x**

He tears up an old picture of two young children, their expressions open and laughing, minds and hearts still pure. (_We'll laugh about this someday. _Nightwing hasn't laughed in a long, long time. Dick doesn't even remember what it feels like to laugh.)

He's kept this photograph for so long. Like it was precious. Now it just reminds him of what used to be.

The scraps flutter slowly to the ground and land in a muddy, blood-stained puddle.

**x-x-x-x**

Dick visits his parents' graves, bearing a bouquet of white lilies for his mother, yellow roses for his father, and blue delphinium interspersed between them because Mom always said they reminded her of him; small and bright, and the exact same shade of blue as his eyes.

"I'm sorry Mom… Dad," he says quietly as he lays the flowers down by the headstone. "I've failed you."

'_You've failed no one but yourself,' _says the voice contemptuously.

He sits down in the grass and trails his finger lightly over the engravings: _Here lie Mary and John Grayson, beloved by all who knew them. May you always fly high. _

"I love you both so much… I hope that you can forgive me." For once, the voice doesn't add anything.

He stays there, sitting cross-legged on the ground, even after his muscles have cramped and the cold from the hard ground has seeped into his bones, chilling him to the core. A few snowflakes start to drift down from the sky; they settle on his lashes, but he doesn't blink for fear they will _fall_. Time itself seems frozen, shrunk down to this one moment; one snowflake landing to replace the one that just melted.

Wally finds him there, three hours later, body racked with coughs and tears long-frozen to his cheeks, and hauls him back to his own apartment saying "by God Dick, it's Christmas Eve and you're planning on freezing yourself to death? What kind of a present is that?"

He thaws in front of Wally's fireplace, a red woolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and can't help wishing that Wally hadn't found him in time.

**x-x-x-x**

They say the past can come back to haunt you, but Dick's never really realized what that meant. Not till this last year, at least. He stands on the roof of a skyscraper and looks out across his city, a black silhouette against a brilliant backdrop of stars. Everything is still, with not even a breeze to ruffle his ebony hair, as if Blüdhaven is waiting for something. It's the moment of breathless quiet before a snowfall.

Closure. He wants closure. He wants to move on, not be kept in this awful state of purgatory, weighed down by the voices in his head. Not being able to see the distorted path he's walking on.

"I want to fly," he tells the night sky.

'_I know you do.'_

The clouds peel away from the moon, and suddenly everything in bathed in silver. It glints off the dark windows of the apartment buildings, etches every dip and crevice in dazzling contrast. The city looks like a black-and-white line drawing, except in three dimensions.

'_Beautiful, isn't it?'_ the voice comments.

Dick's lip twitches upward. It is. It's the most beautiful thing he's seen in ages. He lifts his face to the moon, can imagine how the white light carves his features in stark relief. Maybe _he_ is beautiful too, just in this moment. He is struck by the urge to cry.

'_I can help you, you know.'_

"Help me do what?" he murmurs brokenly, closing his eyes. Moonlight does not warm the skin like sunlight does. Yet he can still feel it, the whisper of a breath over his body. He wishes he were one of those flowers that only bloom under the silent watch of the moon, in the dark where no one can see them.

'_Fly,' _it clarifies._ 'I can help you do that.'_

"No you can't."

'_Yes, I can. I can, Dick.' _Its tone is that of perfect reassurance, with none of the spite that has characterized it for the last few months. It sounds like his mother.

"I hate you," Dick mouths, not sure if the words even leave his lips. No one is there to hear them, either way.

'_No, you don't. I want the same thing you do. Trust me.'_

Dick doesn't open his eyes. The tears spill out from under his lashes.

'_Trust me, Dick.'_

He imagines he can feel the weight of wings on his shoulder blades. The rustle of feathers. They curve up over his head, heavy with the promise of freedom and light as moonshine. All he needs to do is stretch them out, step forward, and everything he's lost will be his again.

So he does.

**x-x-x-x**

The rush of wind in a still night. Falling is the same as flying, after all, just in the other direction.

Dick smiles.

– **fin x.**

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__So I'm taking a Freudian approach and seeing this as a result of childhood trauma, repressed sexuality (yes, I'm not leaving that out xD), and living in a pretty fucked-up world. I don't think it's really that impossible to imagine… the mind is a fragile place. Anyway. Apologies for any inaccuracy; I did research paranoid-schizophrenia but I'm of course no expert. I'm sorry that my first fic after three months of silence is such a dark one, but I hope you enjoyed either way. Reviews would be highly appreciated! Thank you for reading~ _

_-R.R.R._


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